


The Crown

by agentverbivore (verbivore8642)



Category: Agent Carter (TV), Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: 1940s, 1950s, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - 1940s, Alternate Universe - 1950s, Alternate Universe - Royalty, Committed Relationship, Confessions, Courtship, Domestic Fluff, Duty, F/M, First Kiss, First Meetings, Fluff, Grief/Mourning, Implied Sexual Content, Kissing, Love Confessions, Marriage Proposal, Misunderstandings, Modern Royalty, POV Jemma Simmons, POV Leo Fitz, Royalty, Surprise Kissing, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, Wedding Night, Wedding Rings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-13
Updated: 2018-02-27
Packaged: 2019-02-14 05:26:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 19,604
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13000791
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/verbivore8642/pseuds/agentverbivore
Summary: Jemma Simmons is the Crown Princess of the British Empire, and even though she might prefer microscopes to international politics, she is dedicated to her royal duty. As she navigates her family's concern for her lack of a husband, she finds herself increasingly attached to Leo Fitz, a new lord whose family's reputation makes their match nigh impossible.An AU ofThe Crown.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [whatlighttasteslike (waitingforeleven)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/waitingforeleven/gifts).



> when I was watching the first season of _The Crown_ , I started babbling on my tumblr about how much I wanted to write a Certain Scene between QEII and Philip but with FitzSimmons instead. whatlighttasteslike was so enthusiastic about the idea, despite my demurring, that I never quite put it out of my mind. then she prompted me for the AU when I did a giveaway a few months back, and, well... once I'd started writing in this world, I really just had to see it through. :-)
> 
> written for you, whatlighttasteslike - I hope it's everything for which you hoped!
> 
> beta'd, as always, by the amazing and patient MK.
> 
> The first couple of chapters are pretty much of my own invention; we don't get into the timeline of _The Crown_ itself until a bit later. I was heavily inspired by ITV's _Victoria_ for some of these early bits. Please note that Philip  & Elizabeth _are not Fitz & Simmons_, respectively. There is much about the show/history that does not happen in this 'verse. (Namely, pretty much anything from season 2, or a few choice parts of season 1.) The show is a jumping off point for certain scenes, but Fitz/Philip, in particular, are very, very different.
> 
> We start out in the year 1947, just past WWII.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> comments are my lifeblood! :-)

Some days, Jemma Simmons loved the grounds of Buckingham Palace more than anywhere else in the world. 

The day after her father’s coronation many years ago, she had run through the farthest hedgerows, fingers trailing the leaves as she tried to wrap her head around the fact that this was where they lived now. At the time, the trimmed trees and artfully arranged flowers had given her a feeling of quiet that she had not felt while standing by her mother’s side in Westminster Abbey. Its great columns of stone and curved arches had felt both achingly grand and oddly frightening. Her father’s ascension to the throne meant that one day, she would follow in his footsteps. As a young girl whose interests lay more in the cellular makeup of her mother’s favorite flowers, the mere thought of running a country had overwhelmed her. That afternoon, hiding behind carnations and freesia, the garden had reminded her that some things would not change, no matter what weight she would have to bear upon her figurative shoulders. Ever since then, she had escaped to the gardens whenever she needed a break from being England’s Crown Princess. 

Today, however, Jemma was no more eager to enter Buckingham’s gardens than she might be to attend a meeting of Parliament, were they to ever have permitted such a thing. 

Her lady-in-waiting handed her the right-hand glove to match the left one she’d just tugged on, both a spotless white kid leather. “He is supposed to be a good laugh,” Margaret said, trying to give her an encouraging smile. 

In response, Jemma just arched an eyebrow. “A good laugh,” she murmured, smoothing her hands against the A-line of her aquamarine embroidered skirts before she strode through the doorway. “Or the son of England’s wealthiest lord by half. I suppose they’re about one and the same in terms of marriageable qualities.” 

Letting out a small snort, Margaret fell into step beside her along the dirt path. “In most circles, good laugh is synonymous with large purse.” 

“Or small something else,” she muttered, causing her lady-in-waiting to burst out laughing in a wholly unladylike fashion.

A few years older than she, Margaret Carter had been by Jemma’s side for almost as long as she could remember. Some days, her cousin simply assisted with the many arduous duties that belonged to the role of the crown princess. Other days, she helped create distractions so that Jemma could sequester herself in her laboratory or sneak off to the nearest university library. And on days like today, she provided moral support as Jemma was forced to meet yet another eligible bachelor with whom her parents hoped she would fall in love. As ever, the prospects for that outcome looked dim.

Their sensible heels clicked against the pavement as they crossed to the gardens where Jemma was supposed to happen upon her parents’ (and the government’s) preferred suitor of the week. Around the side of a hedge sculpted to look like a vase, a small gaggle of men stood conspicuously by the edge of the pathway along which Jemma would shortly be proceeding. Behind her, her own entourage of ladies gathered, checking in briefly with her and Margaret before devolving into snide remarks about today’s entertainment. 

Hearing their voices and rustling skirts, the men turned in their direction, and Jemma recognized the supposed object of her intentions right away: With an easy grin and a rakish disregard for the formalities of dress expected at Buckingham Palace, lord-to-be Lancelot Hunter stood out from the rest. His waistcoat was wrinkled, sleeves rolled up, and jacket unbuttoned. She also noted that he seemed to have brought his chauffeur with him to the gardens. By Hunter’s side stood a slim man with fair, curly hair, who was intently wiping the last of what appeared to be engine grease off his hands with a handkerchief. Jemma’s nose wrinkled slightly in displeasure, and she drew in a sharp breath. All she needed to do was take one or two turns about the Palace grounds with this Hunter fellow and his entourage, and then she could tell her mother once and for all that he was not going to turn her head.

The government was beginning to get quite concerned with Jemma’s apparent refusal to find a suitable husband. Even though she was, as of yet, only the crown princess and not yet the crown itself, her father was coming along in age and she heard whispers throughout the city of how much longer the king would last. Her heart constricted at the thought; she was only twenty-two, and far from ready to lose her father. Although he was ruler of this fine land, to her, he was the darling man who had snugged her tight against his chest and told her that there were more stars in the sky than jewels in any crown. His permanent absence was unthinkable. 

“Your highness,” rang out Hunter’s voice across the grass, and Jemma fixed a faux-surprised smile on her face. He quickly rounded the edge of a decorative marble banister, smoothing out his subtly golden waistcoat, with his associates ambling along after him. “What a pleasure it is to see you out here.”

She slid her eyes over to Margaret, who disguised a laugh as a cough behind her gloved hand. “Indeed. I don’t often run into acquaintances when I take my daily turn around the grounds.” 

“It’s meant to be,” he joked, and Jemma just hummed in response.

“Did you have car trouble?” she said, flicking her eyes over to the man with the grease rag. At her words, his cheeks flushed a stark pink, and he dropped back so that he was walking more clearly behind her and Hunter, rather than along his master’s side. After a beat, he shoved the cloth into one of his pockets.

“Oh, yeah,” Hunter said, reaching around to clap his friend on the back hard enough to send him shooting forward a few steps. “But Fitzy here’s better at fixing engines than he is at breathing.” 

Jemma turned back to the path in front of them. “Well, I should hope a chauffeur could repair his own engine.” 

“I’m not a bloody chauffeur!” came the indignant voice of Hunter’s friend, his clear Scottish accent prompting Jemma’s eyebrows to rise.

Hunter let out a cackle of laughter loudly enough that she started slightly, looking over to see him leaning on his friend’s shoulder for support. “Oh, Christ, no, I’m sorry Your Highness. Fitz is the best Pilot Officer the R.A.F.’s got, and a lord in his own right, when he isn’t too busy mucking about in the garage.” 

“Fixing a four-cylinder side-valve is nothing compared to a Spitfire,” Fitz muttered, batting away Hunter’s hand.

“Oh, I’m – terribly sorry, Lord Fitz,” Jemma said, glancing over her shoulder to give Margaret a pointed look. It was part of Jemma’s royal duties to know every lord and lady within the British Isles. Clearly something had gone amiss, and she would need to check with her lady-in-waiting once they had a moment alone. His name had just rung a faint bell in the back of her head, even if she could not quite place it. “You must forgive me for not recognizing you.”

Ears now a rather stark shade of red, Fitz shrugged.

With nothing seemingly forthcoming, Jemma cleared her throat, trying to think of a way to smooth over her own social gaffe. “Was it a difficult problem? With the car?”

“Oh, nah,” Fitz said quickly. “S’not rocket science, these engines. Just have to know how to rework the valve release ‘cause the design makes it stick half the time. Quick adjustment and you’re off. And I’ve fixed that junker half a dozen times by now. I keep telling Hunter to upgrade to a Ford V8 Pilot anyway, runs like an absolute beauty. _That_ machine is a fine piece of engineering, you almost wouldn’t know it’s running it’s so quiet. I’ve been trying to think of a way to muffle the Spitfire’s propeller noise, it’d be dead useful in night attacks, but, um....” Trailing off into silence, Fitz glanced from where Jemma was staring at him to where Hunter had just unsubtly trotted around to his friend’s other side, leaving her and Fitz nearly face-to-face. 

“Excuse me, Your Highness,” said Margaret in a low voice from behind Jemma. For a few seconds, Jemma continued to stare at Fitz, who swallowed and ducked his head as if he had just been caught doing something embarrassing. What he thought that was, however, she couldn’t fathom, because she had never heard anyone else demonstrate the level of passion that he had just displayed in talking about engines. In fact, Jemma found that enthusiasm quite intriguing, and it wasn’t until Margaret tapped her arm that she could force herself to turn away from him. “Reach up to your hair as if I’ve just told you a pin has come undone,” she whispered to Jemma, who did as she was told and gave the men a quick smile.

“Excuse me, gentlemen.” Accompanied by the rest of her entourage, Jemma followed after Margaret, who stopped by an elephantine hedge a few feet away. She stepped behind Jemma and slipped a bobby pin out of her neatly curled ‘do, providing them with a cover of sorts as they whispered to each other. 

“I thought you might like a bit of a briefing,” Margaret began, and Jemma just barely stopped herself from nodding enthusiastically and ruining their ruse. 

“I should say so, Peggy,” she replied instead, glancing over at where the men had all gathered in a half circle. Undisguised glee written across his face, Hunter seemed to be in the midst of saying something that was making Fitz’s shoulders hunch so much that it looked almost painful. “I know every lord and earl in England, how –”

“It’s very recent.” Margaret took care to lower her voice, allowing Jemma to watch the subjects of their conversation without drawing anyone’s attention. “His father died when he was deployed, apparently, and he’s only just returned.” 

“In the same unit as Hunter, then?”

“Yes. So the ceremony never happened. They bestowed the title upon him while he was at sea.” 

Jemma sighed, fiddling with the hem of one glove to give herself something to do with her hands. “Poor man. To have your father die –”

“His father was _Alistair_ Fitz.” 

Letting out a small noise of surprise, she twisted around to stare at Margaret with wide eyes. “Oh my.”

Lord Alistair Fitz was well known for being one of the most dissolute royals in the kingdom. With his drinking, gambling, and open-fist brawling, there had been rumors for quite some time that the Palace should strip him of his title – his formerly esteemed bloodline notwithstanding. Now that Jemma thought about it, she did seem to remember that he’d had a son, although for some reason she’d had the impression that the son was still a child.

“He doesn’t seem anything like his father,” Jemma murmured, watching the bashful grin Fitz gave in response to something another one of their entourage said. 

Margaret hummed in response, and Jemma could feel her cousin’s eyes on her. “Not that this has even crossed your mind, of course,” Margaret continued, voice deceptively light and nonchalant. “But the Fitzes would not be considered an acceptable addition to the Simmons bloodline.”

Letting out a low scoff, Jemma reached up to pat the newly secured curls at the back of her neck. “Better than a rich lord with a fondness for blonde Americans.” She cut her eyes over to Margaret. “I haven’t forgotten that gala last year.” 

“Neither has most of high society, I expect,” Margaret retorted. “But that is not the same as rumors of having _Vichy_ friends.”

The implication in the statement rung out clear, but Jemma just made a dismissive noise. “That was his father, not Fitz.” 

“You don’t know that –”

“Then I should find out, shouldn’t I?” Straightening her shoulders, Jemma gave Margaret a smile as she stepped back towards the others. “When we’re done here, arrange for Lord Fitz to come to the Palace tomorrow, for lunch. A private audience, to... apologize for my insult.”

As she strode back onto the pathway, catching the others’ attention once again, she could hear her lady-in-waiting let out a small puff of air. “Yes, your highness.” 

All Jemma wanted to do was to learn a little more about this Fitz character from the man himself. What could be the harm in that?

 

\------

 

_One month later_

 

Birds chirped in nearby trees as Jemma bid adieu to the American Ambassador, and she took in a deep breath once he had wandered off. As much as people often deemed her likeable, she found official functions like this exhausting. Within seconds of her guest’s absence, Margaret was by Jemma’s side with a glass of lemonade, and she gave her a thankful smile.

“That went well?” Margaret prompted, miraculously producing a plate of biscuits just as Jemma finished gulping down her drink.

“Indeed,” she answered, pausing long enough to finish chewing down half a biscuit. “They want to keep lines of communication open, of course. Ambassador Coulson is a good man –”

“And a good soldier, I’ve heard,” came a voice from behind them, and Jemma spun around to see her newest friend ambling up to them.

Fitz’s shoulders were rolled in slightly and his hands clasped behind his back, as if he was not quite certain whether he should have spoken, but when their eyes, met he gave her a genuine smile in return of her own. It helped that he looked quite dapper in his garden party-appropriate attire, the waistcoat nicely slimming and its color highlighting the striking blue shades of his eyes against the brightly lit sky. The ensemble was a far cry from the unremarkable outfit he had worn upon their first meeting, when Jemma had mistaken him for a chauffeur. 

“Pilots who were old enough to fight in the war say that Coulson almost died defending his troops,” Fitz continued, drawing even with them. “Single-handedly saved the 107th, they say.”

“Hello, F– Lord Fitz,” she said, greeting him by handing her plate off to Margaret and then taking his hand. “I’m so glad you could make it.”

He gave her a quick half-bow and glanced back up with a slight wrinkle of his nose. “I’ve told you, you can just call me F–” 

“Not at one of the Palace’s garden parties,” Jemma reminded him gently, and he let out a brief, helpless huff. 

“Right,” he mumbled, squinting out at the picturesque scene before them. Royals and dignitaries milled about the artfully sculpted topiary, the occasional medal gleaming in the sun. “Still not exactly used to these things.”

“You will soon enough,” she said bracingly, giving him a brief pat on the arm.

One of the things that she had learned during Fitz’s handful of visits to the palace was that he had, effectively, been raised out of royal society. His wayward father had abandoned wife and son when Fitz was quite young, choosing instead to carouse and cause mayhem in London proper. Although his father had frittered away the last of his family’s wealth, Fitz’s mother’s own inheritance afforded her just enough to send Fitz to school at a young age, capitalizing upon his intelligence – and her own determination to ensure that her son would grow up to be nothing like her husband. As such, although Fitz was well brought up enough to know the basics of social comportment, he had never been to an official function at the palace prior to Jemma’s first invitation. Considering his inexperience, she thought he was adapting spectacularly.

“Always knew I’d get the title one day,” he mused, still taking in their surroundings, “but I never really thought I’d be at things like this. I don’t think I’ll ever get used to hearing the name. I’ve always been just Fitz.”

“Oh,” Jemma said with a small laugh, “somehow I doubt you were ever _just_ Fitz.” In her peripheral vision, she caught Margaret tapping her own wrist, indicating that Jemma’s next official conversation – this time, with the French president – was overdue. “Oh, _blast_ – I have to go.” She turned to face Fitz more directly, prompting him to straighten his shoulders as he met her gaze. “I did _so_ want to talk to you today, though. I found something truly fascinating in the _ostrea edulis_ cells I was examining yesterday.” 

Fitz’s expression lighted in interest. “Did you? Could I see them?”

Jemma slid her eyes over to crowd surrounding them. Although their burgeoning friendship had gone largely unnoticed so far, with Margaret having used the cover of needing an engine specialist on more than one of his daytime visits, Jemma suspected that the crown princess escaping off to her greenhouse laboratory in the middle of a garden party with a handsome and newly minted young lord would not be well received. 

“Not today, I think,” she said slowly, “but I could tell you about them, and maybe you could come back later in the week, if you have time.”

“I always have time for you,” he followed quickly, and then swallowed. “I mean, as the crown princess. And as... as an interested scholar.”

She studied his expression and furrowed her brows, trying to read between the lines of Fitz trying to speak within the bounds of what was publicly acceptable. “And as a friend, perhaps?”

A smile flashed across his face, and then he ducked his head, seemingly trying to downplay his automatic response. “Yes, as a friend. I’d like that.”

“Good.” Adjusting her skirts, she nodded in her lady-in-waiting’s direction. “I’ll have Margaret talk to Jarvis, to coordinate our schedules.” 

“Oh, and please thank her for me,” Fitz said, eyes widening earnestly. “For recommending Jarvis. I wouldn’t – dealing with all of this would have been a right mess without him as my head of house. I cannot thank Margaret enough.”

Jemma gave him a bemused tilt of her head. “Why don’t you tell her yourself?”

He paused, lips slightly parted as he considered her question. “She frightens me,” he admitted at last, and Jemma had to suppress a peal of laughter.

“Well, good, that’s her doing her job then, keeping young men like you in check around the crown,” Jemma teased, swaying her hips a little as she ignored Margaret’s renewed attempt to get her attention.

“I would never –” Fitz started urgently, “I mean, do anything that would – she doesn’t – I wouldn’t need checking. Ever.”

“I know.” She smiled at him, glancing over again at her lady-in-waiting and the constant reminder that her time was never truly her own. “We’ll speak later, then? Before you leave?”

“I’ll wait for you,” he promised with a determined little nod, and as Jemma turned away at last, she tried to ignore the small flutter in the pit of her stomach. 

“Would you find him someone nice to talk to, please?” Jemma asked Margaret in a low voice, taking the glass of water as her friend handed it over. The two ladies strolled purposefully into the center of the party, seemingly relaxed but with their own, well-practiced agenda in mind. This was how they handled parties – the princess would deal with her royal social duties, but she needed breaks (and sustenance) to survive each ordeal to the end. Her cousin ably provided for her at every event.

“Someone nice?” she retorted wryly, ignoring Jemma’s eye-roll.

“Someone Fitz would feel comfortable around,” Jemma clarified, fondly nudging her friend. “You know he’s still getting used to his title.” 

“I will do my best, Your Highness.” Margaret pointed Jemma towards her next target, and she inhaled, affixing a pleasant smile upon her face. At least she had something to look forward to once she had finished all of her royal responsibilities; assuming Fitz was still there.

Sure enough, two hours later, Jemma found Fitz around the corner of a particularly large and impressive shrubbery shaped like an elephant. Nearly all of the guests had gone, but he was leaning against a decorative marble balustrade, brows drawn together and arms crossed as he listened to a man who was presumably his head of house. Although Jemma had not yet had the pleasure of officially being introduced to Edwin Jarvis, she had heard enough from both Margaret and Fitz to be exceedingly grateful to him for his knowledge and temperament. He presented a tall and wiry figure who seemingly towered over his master, although that was likely due in part to Fitz’s slouch. 

Once Fitz caught sight of Jemma’s approach, however, he shot up to his feet and waved off Jarvis, quickly straightening his waistcoat as he went.

Jemma politely pretended not to notice, and instead glanced over his shoulder at the retreating back of his head of house. “Was that Jarvis? I haven’t actually met him yet.”

“Oh,” Fitz said, turning comically around only to see that Jarvis was nowhere to be found. “Er, sorry, he doesn’t – says he doesn’t belong out and about at things like this, you know, he’s very careful about protocol. He’s a godsend, really, wouldn’t know what to do with myself without him. You can always come to the house, if you want to meet him. He’s more, ah, relaxed when there aren’t other people around. Sort of.”

An amused smile flitted across her face, and she dipped her head, turning slightly and indicating that Fitz should fall into step beside her, which he did gladly. “The crown princess does not typically make house calls at newly-lorded bachelor’s houses,” she pointed out gently, and then had to suppress a laugh at the mortification that bloomed on Fitz’s face. “But I appreciate the offer.”

“Right,” he managed to eke out, and then was silent, shoulders hunching stiffly forward.

“Relax, Fitz.” She gave his arm a gentle tap as they strolled, making sure not to catch the attention of the few remaining attendees. “It’s just me. You’re doing fine.” Fitz made a small noise, likely in assent although she was not quite sure. “I was pleasantly surprised to find you still here, actually.”

He blinked, and glanced over at her with a slightly incredulous expression on his face. “I promised I would wait.”

That distinctly butterfly-esque sensation fluttered in her chest for the second time that day, and she had to force herself to stop smiling at him so directly. Most of the young lords to whom Jemma had been introduced in her lifetime would absolutely have made such a promise, and then departed the garden party the second they had lost interest in waiting.

“And I appreciate a promise kept,” she replied softly, clasping her hands in front of her cream-colored skirts. “Would you still like to hear about –”

“The _ostrea edulis_ cells,” he completed for her, nodding enthusiastically. “I can’t wait to see your new microscope, too, must be a real beauty.” He paused, and when she glanced back over there was a tinge of color high on his cheeks. “Not compared to, ah, you, though, Your Majesty.”

Jemma let out a surprised laugh, covering her mouth with one hand. “Why, thank you, Lord Fitz. Should I wait for a sonnet from you next?”

He shook his head, squinting up at where clouds were skipping fast across the sky. “Wouldn’t count on it. Never been much for rhyming.” 

“Why does that not surprise me,” she deadpanned, earning her the affronted little noise she had desired.

As Jemma ambled with Fitz through the last few minutes of the garden party, she could not help but feel that finishing any such event with him made all the previous tedium worthwhile.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'll be alternating posting this with the other multi-chap FS fic I have going on right now. I just wanted to get this out there to celebrate the release of _The Crown_ 's second season! yay!


	2. Chapter 2

_Eight Months Later_

With a glance at the thin-banded watch on her wrist, Jemma let out an annoyed huff and turned on a dime to continue pacing behind a fountain at the far end of the Palace grounds. Nearby, Margaret stood with one of Jemma’s other ladies, both of them supposedly chatting about inanities but likely faintly amused by their mistress’ behavior. Jemma, however, did not care what they thought about her current state of mind, as something else had her entirely occupied.

“He definitely said today?”

Margaret sighed into a wry smile, and turned towards her. “Yes, Princess. You read the telegram yourself.” 

“After lunch?” Jemma let her skirt swish exaggeratedly around her legs when she turned at the end of the fountain, lavender fabric catching sunlight as it filtered through the clouds.

“Yeah, you know how I am when I’m hungry.”

Spinning back around, Jemma’s eyes landed on Fitz, who was sidestepping a rose bush and grinning. Before she could stop herself, an indistinct noise of either relief of excitement escaped from her throat, and a wide smile stretched across her face. Finally, their separation was at an end – and not a day too soon, in her opinion. 

Fitz had been deployed for two whole months, and it was by far the longest they had been apart since they had met. In fact, there had been weeks before his departure where he had been at the Palace once every day, at the very least to say hello on the way to work on preparing the Spitfires for deployment. (“On the way” was, she knew, a relative statement – an excuse that Fitz gave, since his residences were actually in the opposite direction. He would double-back just to see her, which made her inordinately happy.) Jemma had become so used to his presence that the Palace had felt practically empty in his absence. Although no one could ever replace Margaret in her heart – heretofore her closest confidante and dearest friend – Fitz had become nearly as precious to Jemma as her cousin, and in a shockingly short time. The two months apart had felt interminable to her, and she was deeply relieved to see him walking towards her now, eyes bluer than the sky and sand-brown curls fairer than ever in the sunlight. 

“Fitz,” she exclaimed, taking two steps at a half-run towards him, her hands reaching forward for a brief second as if she was going to embrace him as she had long wanted to do. But propriety dictated otherwise, and so she forced herself to still, waiting for him to draw even with her, next to the burbling fountain. “It’s ever so good to see you.”

“And you,” he said, voice warm and smile fond. He shoved his hands a little further into his pockets and rocked back on his heels. “Been a while.”

“Nearly two months.” Jemma tried to say this as if she hadn’t been counting every day until he had returned to her, and then ducked her head to hide the light blush that she felt blooming on her cheeks.

With a quick glance at her ladies, she raised her hand to signal their departure, and Margaret nodded in response. Early on in Jemma and Fitz’s friendship, she had managed to convince her lady-in-waiting that Fitz was trustworthy enough to permit the two of them to be alone together more often than was typically considered acceptable by the day’s social mores. There was nothing salacious behind their wish for privacy; to his credit, Fitz barely touched Jemma at all, except for the rare brush of his hand against her arm or on the dip of her lower back as they walked. She simply felt that they were able to be themselves more easily without the eyes that typically followed her wherever she went as she traversed her life as the crown princess. When she and Fitz spent time together, in her greenhouse lab or exploring the less-traveled corners of the Palace grounds, she was able to be herself in a way she was not often permitted: just Jemma, no crown or duties weighing her down. And the person she most wanted to share that feeling with was Fitz.

“Only two?” he joked, keeping pace as she led them away from prying eyes and past a nearby gathering of trees. “Felt like more.” 

“It did.” She glanced down at where his hands were still hidden away, and then forced herself to look forward. “Was it a successful mission, at least?”

Fitz nodded, enthusiasm radiating from him as he spoke. “Oh yeah, brilliant, actually. I’m not quite there yet, but the propeller noise is at nearly half on my latest model, and our flight tests went smoothly. And I, ah,” he said, pausing to clear his throat, “went up a rank. I’m a Flying Officer, now.”

“Oh _Fitz_ ,” she said, reaching out to grab his arm, “congratulations!”

For half a second, he stared at her hand on the dark navy of his suit jacket, and then reached hesitantly over with his right one to press it gently against hers. “Thanks,” he replied with a bashful smile, removing his hand after only the most fleeting of seconds. “It’s a bit fast, but –” 

“But well deserved,” she finished for him, giving his arm one more squeeze before letting go. “So, tell me about the adjustments you made to the Spitfires. It’s far more interesting than my daily duties, although I did have some progress in the greenhouse yesterday.”

Always happy to comply with her requests to hear about his feats of engineering, Fitz launched into a detailed explanation of the work he had done while deployed. As much as she did appreciate the responsibilities she held as the crown princess, Jemma’s not-so-secret passion had always been scientific pursuits. Care for her country she did, but science actively fascinated her. She had long since accepted that most of her life would be dedicated to ruling the empire, as she had been taught, but she allowed herself some modicum of indulgence in her private interests. Conversing with Fitz about his work, and periodically showing him what few experiments she could manage in the greenhouse, fulfilled that need in her life.

As they ambled along the tree line, the two of them alternated between talking about their various scientific exploits while they had been apart, with Jemma discussing what few discoveries she had made and with Fitz describing his work on the Spitfires. As he spoke, however, at one point he let out a small huff mid-sentence, giving his head a sharp shake.

“What is it?” She slowed to a stop, tapping his arm to prompt him to meet her eyes. 

“No, sorry, I was just...” Fitz began, breaking off again on a noise of annoyance. “I wasn’t going to tell you this, but it’s just... been driving me mad. I had to discipline some of the younger men because they were saying some... terribly rude things. Keep thinking about it, even if I try not to.” 

Jemma arched an eyebrow. “Aren’t soldiers known for being a, um, bit rude when in their units? It’s part of the culture, as I’ve come to understand it.”

Letting out a low sigh, he dropped his gaze between them. “About you. They were taking the piss out of Hunter, for not, um, catching your attention. And then saying really vulgar things about us – I mean, you and me... which is, just,” he continued, voice higher pitched and the words rambling together, “you know, ridiculous, of course, because you’re my best friend and I’m honored to be your companion here at the Palace, or wherever you choose, and I would never.... I mean, you’re my Princess – the Princess! _The_ Princess, the crown princess, and I respect you, and I would throw overboard anyone who didn’t.” When he’d finished, he sucked in a large breath of air, the leaves of nearby trees rustling loudly in the breeze. “Nearly did, actually, but Hunter pointed out that I don’t have the authority to discipline sailors, so. Got their captain to give them extra KP instead.” 

Although a small part of her brain wanted to be amused by Fitz’s endearing awkwardness about defending her honor, her stomach had dropped sharply by his insinuation that nothing beyond friendship was or would happen between them. For months now, Jemma had been treating Fitz as if he was her primary suitor – her only suitor, in fact, because no other eligible bachelor in the country had piqued her interest in nearly the same way that he did. They had never said as much to each other, but she had assured Margaret time and again that they did not need to – that she and Fitz understood each other without speaking. She had assumed that his eagerness to return to her day after day had indicated that he was interested in becoming her future consort, should the government permit the union. Now, she felt bile rising to the back of her throat, and she twisted her fingers together at the front of her dress. 

“You told them,” she said at last, voice halting, “that you and I weren’t... aren’t....” 

“Of course I did,” he replied immediately, without even a moment’s hesitation. “Straight off, and that it wasn’t any of their business who you decide to marry. You’ll find someone when you’re good and ready, and it’s nothing to them what you do in the meantime.”

“I...” Jemma whispered, swallowing as she stared up at him with wide eyes. “Fitz, I have been turning down invitations for... quite some time now. Months. You’re the only man I see outside of royal or Palace business.” Her words hung between them, his gaze now riveted to her face. “Did you not wonder why?”

Fitz wrinkled his nose, turning towards her more directly. “Didn’t ever think about it, honestly.”

“Oh.” She blinked rapidly, warding off the sudden threat of tears, and ducked her head, ready to return to the Palace. For all that she had spent her life in the public eye, never before had Jemma been so embarrassed. “I – I feel quite foolish. Excuse me....”

Although she turned quickly, Fitz was faster, and before she knew it her wrist was held firmly in his grasp. “Wait, what? What d’you feel foolish for?” She glanced down at his hand, and he let her go immediately. “Sorry.”

For a few seconds, she could only suck in uneven breaths, looking up before finally forcing herself to speak. “Do you really not know?” When she met his eyes, he seemed to rear back, as if the expression on her face now had shocked him so much that he’d been knocked off-balance.

“What? Me? You... and me....” His mouth opened and closed silently, and for a brief moment Jemma’s own adoration of him floored her. Something about his complete and utter obliviousness was wildly adorable, even as it broke her heart.

“I’m sorry it comes as such a shock,” she began, but Fitz spoke over her, still standing motionless as he stared back. 

“It never occurred to me.” 

A disbelieving noise somewhere between a laugh and a sob stuttered from her throat, and she squeezed her fingers into the lavender satin of her dress. “Not once?”

He shook his head, tongue darting out to wet his lips. “That you’d ever see me as more than a companion – a friend, even? In anything outside of my most impossible dreams?” Jemma’s brows drew together as she tried to piece together the meaning of his words. “No, Princess, it never once occurred to me.”

Then Fitz’s hands were cupping her cheeks and his lips were against hers, hungry, searching, pressing in over and over until her head was spinning and her own lips were desperate for more. Jemma nearly tilted off balance as she tried to hold on, utterly thrown both by having her first ever kiss as much as she was by his sudden passion. She was not sure if he had kissed anyone before either, his movements both unsure and yet the more ardent for it. But there was a delicious friction in the move of his mouth against hers, something that made her cling to his shoulders when he finally drew away, both of them panting frantically against each other.

Desperate not to let him part from her – and unsure of whether she could support her own weight in that moment – Jemma nuzzled forward to lean their foreheads together. For a few seconds, he kept his eyes closed, heavy breath washing over her skin. When at last he looked at her, she was struck by how transformed he looked from the sweet and shy engineer with whom she had become so familiar. With his arms wrapped around her, his flushed lips mere centimeters from hers, and his pupils dilated wide even with sunlight only a few steps away, Fitz became an altogether different being. One of heat and passion that she had never even truly considered before – but in whom she was suddenly very much interested. 

“Please don’t have me beheaded.” 

Thrown out of her haze of surprise and desire, Jemma blinked up at him. His expression had morphed into one that genuinely bordered on fear, and she burst out laughing. 

“It’s not _that_ ridiculous,” he mumbled, but then she was kissing him again, and he made a low, pleased noise against her lips.

Thank heavens for Margaret, whose promise of privacy included preventing others from wandering into this secluded part of Buckingham’s gardens. Jemma wound her arms around Fitz’s neck, delighting in cataloguing the feeling of having a man pressed so intimately against her for the first time. The longer they kissed, the more bold he became, his touch losing all semblance of hesitancy and his lips finally becoming sure as they moved heatedly against hers.

When they broke apart at last, they both parted with disbelieving smiles upon their faces, and Jemma simply _had_ to brush their noses together one last time before stepping back. She had begun to worry about how improprietous their embrace would be considered by any who stumbled upon them, and patted her hair down to make sure that no signs of ill-doing were apparent. Evidently unconcerned about his appearance, Fitz bounced slightly in place, a boyish grin spreading across his face. 

“What?” She glanced at him from beneath her eyelashes, re-affixing a bobby pin that had come loose.

“Oh, no, nothing, I just – you look nice. Like that.”

Jemma arched an eyebrow at him, tipping her chin up in amusement. “Looking as if a pilot just accosted me in the gardens?”

“ _Accosted_ ,” he huffed, sounding distinctly insulted. “See, this is why I was worried about the beheading.”

“Don’t be silly, Fitz,” she murmured, slipping one hand into his. “The executioner would have to get through me first.”

“Wouldn’t want to be him, then,” he quipped in return, and they both laughed quietly.

A few seconds of silence passed, in which Jemma tightened her fingers around his and reveled in the kind of touch she had never been so bold as to initiate. Propriety had always dictated that the crown princess did not allow herself to be held in any way by a man prior to marriage. With Fitz, however, she was willing to make a few, private exceptions. Thinking about the intriguing passion behind their kisses, she admitted to herself that her exceptions might stretch beyond just “a few.” 

“I missed you.” He glanced up at her and then down again, color blooming in his cheeks. “While I was gone. Couldn’t believe how much sometimes.”

“I missed you, too,” she said straightaway, prompting him to meet her gaze again. “Very, very much.”

Fitz let out a low laugh, eyes shining a crystal-clear blue as they reflected the mid-afternoon sky. “In the main briefing room there’s a wall of pictures – y’know, the PM, the King, and one of the royal family, with you in the center. I used to look forward to those bloody briefings more than getting to the planes some days.”

A bright smile flashed across her face, and Jemma stepped closer in. “If you wanted... I could get a picture of myself for you. To, um, to keep. As a sort of favor. If you wanted it.” She wrinkled her nose at her own repetition; somehow, having assumed their relationship status without having ever said anything out loud came to her more naturally than these grand, open statements.

To his credit, Fitz did not seem to notice her awkwardness or inexperience in romance, excitement spreading across his face as she finished speaking. “Really? To keep?”

“Yes,” she said with a laugh, “to keep. Along with my heart.” 

Warmth bloomed in her cheeks as the impulsive words tumbled out of her mouth, but then they were out in the open and she had nowhere to hide. Forthrightness about her personal feelings was not in Jemma’s nature, but being with Fitz made it slightly easier than it ever had been with anyone else. 

After she spoke, he bundled her hands into both of his and pressed them against his chest, as if he could physically show her the fervency of his response by the strength of his grip.

“I will take care of it as if it were the most precious thing in this world,” Fitz vowed, expression earnest and nearly fiery as he looked back at her.

For a moment, Jemma wasn’t sure whether he meant the picture or her heart. Both, she supposed, would more than suffice.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so, I know that I said I'd be posting this one every other week, but I think once you read this, you'll understand why I wanted to post this one right away. fwiw, this was written months before 506 aired. ;-)

_One year later_

For the umpteenth time in the past ten minutes, Fitz gave himself an once-over in the Palace parlor room’s floor-to-ceiling window. If Jemma didn’t show up soon, he was going to have to beg the nearest guard for permission to hunt down and borrow a book. When he had answered the ring at his front door earlier that day, he had been too frazzled at the invitation to even think to bring something with which to occupy himself during a wait. The Palace footman had simply relayed that the crown princess wanted to see him as soon as possible, once she finished with whatever meeting had her out in the city, and as ever, Fitz had answered her call. Even if he was fairly certain that today was about to be the worst of his life.

The months of their courtship, by contrast, had been the happiest of his life, despite his acute awareness that it would eventually come to a close. They had spent every spare moment together, much to the delight of the gossips and to the horror of the royal family. Fitz had tried to lessen the shame of his presence by being as upstanding a soldier and countryman as he could be, although this had not actually required much habit changing on his part. In any case, Jemma had assured him time and again that he was exactly as he should be, regardless of what the rest of Britain thought.

In truth, their relationship had not altered much after the day she told him she saw him as more than simply an amusement – as something more intimate, more passionate than friend or mere companion. Every so often, she permitted him a stolen kiss or two, behind closed doors or beneath leafy trees, but mostly their banter and intellectual sparring stayed just the same. Fitz had done his best to treat Jemma as she deserved, with flowers and favors and daily compliments. Judging by the shine to her eyes, she appreciated his few, heartfelt words of affection most of all, eventually telling him that she required no trinkets to prove his devotion. His presence was what she desired, and so he gave her that whenever possible.

The R.A.F. kept him away from her more than he wished, and in fact, he had only just returned from a three-month-long deployment. They had been reunited a few days prior, wherein she had let him trail kisses as far down as the join of her neck and shoulder, and he had known that his toil on the Spitfires had been worth every second.

But the future hung unspoken between them, with her crown and the bloodline of the royal family weighing upon them both. For although Fitz loved Jemma, and she said time and again that she loved him in return, one day she would have to choose and marry a man who could stand by her side as she ruled the British Empire. This was not something they ever acknowledged outright, its ghost hovering between them whenever she had duties to which she must attend, or when the Queen eyed him skeptically during Palace functions.

They did not discuss the future of their relationship because its inevitable end must be apparent to them both. There was no universe in which the British Parliament would permit a Simmons to marry a Fitz.

His father’s vaguely treasonous and certainly reprehensible behavior prior to his death would certainly preclude Fitz himself from consideration for the hand of the crown princess. Though he told himself time and again that he had known this was how things would have to be from the start, his heart hadn’t listened. Something deep inside told him now that he would never be able to love another as he did Jemma, even if he had to watch her rule the kingdom with another man by her side. It seemed like justice, in some way – reparations for the foul deeds of the man who had helped give him life. Thus all the people that Alistair Fitz had wronged would be repaid by the lifelong agony of his son, desperately in love with a future queen who would not be permitted to love him back. Not for much longer, in any case. 

Occasionally, as their courtship had ticked on, Fitz had taken to fantasizing about what it might be like for them to escape together to a simple house in the countryside. To run far away from their responsibilities and raise a family together. To hold her in his arms and know that he would not ever have to let her go.

Dreams, however, were just that, and Fitz was a sensible man. When Jemma told him that their courtship would have to cease, or even that she had already found her future husband, he would congratulate her and offer to help them in any way he could. Even if it meant that he had to drink himself to sleep for the foreseeable future.

During his most recent deployment, he had become convinced that this end would be rapidly upon them. Not long before Fitz’s departure, her father, the king, had undergone a brief but startling illness, and Fitz had begun to see changes in Jemma’s manner as she dealt with the personal and political aftermath. It would make sense, he told himself, if she felt it were her duty to marry someone appropriate and government-approved as soon as possible. 

Her letters to Fitz as he had been abroad had lessened slightly in frequency as time had passed, and although they had been no less affectionate and spirited, he had wondered how much longer her family would allow their relationship to go on. Upon his return this week, their time together had been brief, and she had been busy with errands or meetings upon which she did not elaborate.

So, while he awaited her arrival in the small parlor room at the back of the Palace, Fitz counted down the minutes until the crown princess arrived and told him that their courtship was a thing of the past.

Itching for something to do with his hands, he fetched his wallet out of his suit jacket’s inner breast pocket and slid out the small portrait of Jemma that he kept with him at all times. It was small and greyscale, a reject of an official portrait for which her mother had insisted she sit the year prior. In it, Jemma was looking directly at the camera with a smug, secretive smile, likely having been prompted by Margaret from near the photographer. Jemma’s eyebrow was crooked up in a way that meant she knew she was smarter than everyone else in the room – it also happened to be his favorite of her expressions.

The slip of photo paper had brought him a deep sense of comfort when he had been away on duty, and he mentally thanked her yet again for giving it to him. As he traced the slightly worn edge with his thumb, he hoped that she would not ask for it back again. Something told him that this small piece of her might be the only thing he would be allowed to keep. He sighed, and returned it to its hiding place.

If today was indeed going to usher in the end of their intimacy, all he had left was the time they had spent together, and this was what Fitz would cherish for the rest of his days. The memory of her quick wit and easy smile, her kindness and her endearing sense of superiority, the sensual press of her lips and her hands against his – these would be his keepsakes, those moments that she had gifted to him and no one else. For while all others saw only the crown, he had spent time with Jemma Simmons herself, uninhibited by the expectations of others, and for that, Fitz was certain he was the luckiest man in the world. 

Footsteps clicking rapidly down the marble-floored hallway caught his attention, and he turned just as Jemma hurried through the doorway, followed closely by Margaret. Clad in a fashionable lavender traveling dress and her cheeks pink from the wind, Jemma lit up when she caught sight of him.

“Fitz,” she exclaimed, reaching forward with both hands but halting herself before he could take more than one step. Jemma turned back to her lady-in-waiting, and then glanced at the butler and guard who were hovering just within sight of the doorway. “Could we be left alone, please?”

Margaret glanced uneasily into the hallway. “I didn’t have time to prepare, Your Highness, I’m not sure –”

“Please, Peggy,” Jemma whispered, and the taller woman looked over at Fitz. 

“Very well,” she said at last. With a fond smile and a quick grasp of her dear friend’s hand, Margaret went to the doors and pulled them closed behind herself. Just before the door clicked shut, they could hear her say: “The Crown Princess has private business to attend to.”

“Private business?” Fitz chuckled, drawing Jemma’s attention back to himself. “I didn’t realize I was so important.” 

A wide smile split her face, and she hopped over to him in only a few steps. “You are to me,” she replied, grasping both of his hands and stretching up to press their foreheads together. “I’m sorry for the short notice, thank you for coming.” 

“Course, I’ll go wherever you tell me.” He pulled away enough to press a kiss to the back of her hand. “And not just ‘cause you’re going to be the queen one day.”

She let out a low sigh, dropping her eyes and looking around the room. “That’s actually what I wanted to talk about.”

Bile crept up the back of Fitz’s throat, but he just gave her a thin-lipped smile as she led them to where two settees faced one another along the room’s back wall. Gesturing for him to sit, she removed the stylish hat – in matching fabric to her travel outfit – from her head and neatly affixed the bobby pins which had held it on to its side, and then placed it on a nearby table. She looked back up, gave him a nervous-seeming smile, and sat down across from him on the matching settee, taking a few seconds to smooth out her skirt. If she had not been the one to call him here today, he might think that she was procrastinating.

“Go ahead,” he offered at last, and she sucked in a quick breath.

“Right, of course,” Jemma said, the speed of her words confirming Fitz’s suspicion that she was nervous. “As I said, I am terribly grateful for you coming to see me on such short notice. I have been working on something while you were deployed, and I finally put the last piece in place this afternoon, and I thought it prudent to – to speak to you as soon as possible.” 

Inhaling, she twisted her hands together tightly over her lap, and something clenched in Fitz’s chest. There was no doubt in his mind now that she was about to tell him that she had just finished making arrangements for her marriage to some far-off prince; her clear anxiety confirmed his suspicions. Even though she was about to break his heart, however, he couldn’t bear to see her so discomfited. The news would not be a shock to him, and should she desire his continued, platonic presence, he would give it to her willingly.

So, as she paused to gather her thoughts, he reached across the space between them to wrap her hands in his. “It’s okay, Jemma,” he said, meeting her surprised gaze. “You can tell me anything.”

She stared briefly back at him, lips parted and eyes wide, and then tangled her fingers more tightly with his. “I know I can. Although – I suppose I want to ask something, rather than to tell. When my father was ill earlier this year I began to think about how... how different my life will be when he is gone. I dread the day, in fact, but he doesn’t appreciate me carrying on about him, so.... But I want him to be there for the important things in my life, if he can be. And I want his blessing.” 

“His recovery was astounding,” Fitz said firmly, squeezing her hands. “The King will be with us for years to come, I’m sure of it. His doctors say he fares better every day, don’t they?”

“Yes,” she replied, “quite. But, um, please, Fitz – let me finish?” 

“Right, yeah, sorry.” He gave her an apologetic tilt-up of his lips, and tried to sublimate the urge to delay her words for as long as he could manage.

“It forced me to think about what it will be like for me to rule the Empire. Which is not to say I haven’t thought about it before – I’ve spent my whole adult life doing that. But, I mean what my daily life would be like. How hard it is on him, and how much he relies on the Queen, my mother, and always has. And I know that I’ll need someone at my side when I take the throne. Someone brilliant, and kind, and loyal – to me, as well as to Britain. I always thought that I would have more time, but my father... the King being ill made it clear to me that time is running out. And it’s going to be hard.” She took a long breath, closing her eyes briefly before she continued. “Being married to me is going to be hard, for anyone, because I can’t just make decisions for myself. Everything I do has to be for the good of the country, and its people, and the people in our colonies across the world. And it’s important to understand that, because it won’t be a normal marriage. But it’s the only kind I’m ever going to have.”

Her eyes shimmered, and without thinking, Fitz moved to sit next to her on the settee, reaching automatically up to swipe away a tear that had just fallen. When Jemma blinked up to meet his gaze, he was surprised to see her giving him a watery smile.

“So, Fitz – dearest Fitz. I was wondering if you think you might be willing to put up with all of that, and become my husband.”

Fitz stared at her, his brain not quite catching up to what she had just said. “What?”

“It’s not even a traditional proposal, I know,” she said with a sigh. “But the months I spent convincing the government to permit our union have made that impossible anyway. I’ve been worried all week that someone would let something slip before I could get the prime minister’s agreement this afternoon, but luckily you’re such a homebody that wasn’t a problem.” Jemma let a grin slip, and then rolled her eyes seemingly at herself. “I feel like I sound a bit Darcy-esque, now, having to convince parliament and all that, but you know that I would do it all despite them. I would if I... if my life were my own. But you know, better than anyone else, almost, that I have a responsibility. To do things properly. To make sure no one could take any of it away, or – or anything.”

“You want us to get married?” Fitz could feel his heart pounding in his chest, and there was a slight ringing in his ears. “Married to me?”

The mirth on her face faded, and she slipped her hands away from his. “I do. I’ve known for... a long time. But I wasn’t sure I could get approval, and I... don’t know if this is what you want. We never talked about the future. We barely even talked about our courtship.”

“All I’ve ever wanted,” he said, voice low and eyes boring deeply into hers, “is to be with you.”

A tremulous smile threatened again, and she gave her head a sharp shake to keep herself on track. “But I need you to understand, Fitz, that it won’t be like this. Like it has been between us. Not quite. When we marry, you’re committing yourself to the crown as much as you are to me. Because when there are difficult days – if tensions with the Soviet Union ever erupt, if West Germany is ever breached, if rebuilding is ever halted.... On days like that, we will have to put crown and country before our relationship. I will have to put the Empire before my love for you, and any family we might have.” She reached out to press her hand against his chest, directly over his heart, sliding forward on the settee so she could look directly up into his eyes. “And I love you so dearly, Fitz. I’m being quite selfish asking this of you, I know, but I... have never been more sure of anything in my life. I never want to be without you. If you think you could manage being with me. Marrying the crown.”

“Is that an actual question?” he found himself saying, half-incredulous. Once she had made her interest in a courtship clear, Fitz had not been subtle about his feelings. In truth, he did not know how to be.

He could feel her stiffen slightly, eyes glinting in the muted sunlight. “Yes, it is. And I want you to think about it before you answer. Consider....” She sighed, and glanced down at her lap. “Consider what you would be giving up.” 

Sensing that she was not in the mood for teasing, he bit back his instinctive remark that nothing he could give up would ever compare to her. Instead, he allowed silence to weave between them and studied her expression. A distinct warmth and gratitude spread through his chest as he thought about how much effort Jemma must have exerted to convince the entire government – not to mention her parents – that he was not going to be a liability once they were wed forevermore under the eyes of God. Although there had not really been any question of his answer, this thought solidified it for him.

“Will I get to be with you?” Fitz knew she was trying to be kind by asking him to consider the realities of what their marriage would be like, and that what she had said was important, but to him the matter was truly as simple as that.

Jemma wrinkled her nose, thrown off by the obvious-seeming question. “What?”

“If we get married,” he said slowly, “will we be together?”

“Well, yes, but... not as much as you might think.” She sighed, giving her head a resigned little tilt. “Not as much as I would like.”

Fitz nodded, absorbing that answer. It surprised him, in that he had always understood the royal leader’s consort to be by their side more often than not. After a pause, he reached forward to take her hands again, feeling the slight tremor of nerves that shivered from her fingers up through the rest of her body. He realized that she was genuinely afraid he might say no – as if there were any possibility of him denying her anything, especially something he wanted so fervently himself.

“Jemma,” he said at last, scooting forward on the settee so their knees touched. “I’d take any part of you that you’re willing to give me. I’d spend the rest of my life just keeping you safe, if you asked. But to marry you?” Fitz reached up to cup her cheek in his hand, noting the way she leaned slightly into his touch. “It would make me the happiest man on the planet. No matter what baggage the crown brings with it.”

The smile that broke across her face then reminded him of sunrise over the horizon as seen from a soaring Spitfire, bright and effortless and infinite. “Oh, Fitz – really?”

“Yes, as long as I can....” He stopped short and slid off the settee to kneel before her, wobbling slightly before catching his balance. “I’m sorry, I don’t have a speech or anything prepared, because I never thought I’d be given the chance. So, here’s the best I have: I love you.” She sniffled quietly, waving him on when he paused. Instead of just returning to his ad-hoc speech, though, Fitz carefully took her hand and pressed a kiss to the back of it. “I’ve never been as lucky as I was the day we spoke for the first time. If you’ll let me, I’d like to spend the rest of my life trying to be the kind of man who deserves your love in return. Will you marry me, Jemma Simmons?”

“Yes,” she breathed right away, tugging at his hands and shoulders to bring him back up to her level. Flinging her arms around his neck, she let out an odd noise somewhere between a sob and a laugh. “Yes, I will marry you, Leopold Fitz.”

An almost painfully wide grin spread across his face as he wrapped his arms tightly around her slim waist and then tucked his head into her neck. The ends of her artfully styled curls tickled his nose but he didn’t care: Jemma Simmons was now his fiancée, and he could not ever remember being happier than he was in that moment.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a little note that here we finally get into the timeline/content of _The Crown_ itself.
> 
> This chapter's a bit short, since it's already technically (mostly) [been posted](https://agentverbivore.tumblr.com/post/161093747303/hello-my-friend-for-your-ficlet-giveaway-how).

_Six months later_

 

The room’s familiar gilding served as no distraction for Jemma while she paced the floor’s elaborate carpet. Her dress swished around her legs, and she resisted the urge to curl her fingers into the flower-embroidered, cream fabric. That would not be ladylike. Voices droned on in the room across the hall, and although she knew that it would be seen as very improper for her to be present or even eavesdrop, the latter was precisely what she was trying to do. It just didn’t seem fair for her to be excluded from such an important occasion; but, that is simply how things were done, and Princess Jemma Simmons was excellent at following royal protocol. She had been an expert ever since she was a child, and she was not going to stop now. Still, she paced back and forth in front of the drawing room door, managing to catch a handful of words: 

“ _...From henceforth, he will be known as Flight Lieutenant Leopold James Fitz, Royal Air Force. Leopold Fitz, I grant you and the heirs, male of your body, lawfully begotten, the dignities of Baron Greenwich, Earl of Meioneth and Duke of Edinburgh, and Knight Companion of our Most Noble Order of the Garter_.”

Reserved applause sounded through the hallway, and Jemma realized that she was grinning in an entirely unseemly way, but she could not convince herself to stop. When she accidentally caught the eye of a nearby butler, she quickly tried to school her face into an expression of polite contentment, and gave him a nod. Then she turned on her heel and paced back to the other side of the room, wholly impatient for the men’s congratulating to finish so that she could finally, _finally_ see her fiancé. 

Within a few minutes, as she stared pensively out the window onto the grounds of Buckingham Palace, she heard sharp footsteps cross the hall and become muffled as the person entered the drawing room. A bright smile spread across her face, and she pirouetted quickly around to see that the new person was, in fact, her Fitz. He looked so dapper in his dress uniform – ever-unruly curls barely tamed and blue eyes shining as they met hers – that she sucked in a small breath of pleased surprise. Even though she had seen him like this before, everything in the next twenty-four hours was guaranteed to be heightened, routines and familiar dress becoming all the more exciting for the life that it was designed to usher in.

The movement of the other dignitaries, guards, and servants now passing through the hall caught Jemma’s eye, and her smile faltered. For although Fitz’s touch was not precisely foreign to her, now was not the time for her to run up and throw her arms about his neck as she had been about to do.

“Well?” she said quietly, slipping around the large table—decorated by an enormous vase of flowers—that separated them. “They got through it?”

Fitz chuckled, hooking one finger into his collar and tugging slightly. “Yeah. _I_ got through it, which is probably more impressive.”

“Well done, you,” she murmured, taking another step forward. Someone in the hall made a distinct huff, and they both turned, although the noisemaker had disappeared by the time they did. Jemma sighed. “I think they’d have preferred a nice, pink-faced marquis with a grouse moor in the Welsh borders.”

“Are you sure you wouldn’t’ve preferred one of those?” Fitz said, clearly teasing but a hint of insecurity hovering beneath his words. “Someone with a grand title, instead of an undignified Scot with a disreputable family?”

“No,” Jemma answered without hesitation, her gaze clear as she met his. Tension leeched out of his shoulders, and the look he gave her was one of adoration that she knew quite well by now. A smile teased at the corners of her mouth. “That would have been much too... antiseptic.” 

“You like antiseptic, if I remember correctly,” he said, and she laughed, raising one hand to hide her mouth.

“So do you,” she retorted, folding her hands primly in front of her skirts as she glimpsed someone else’s disapproving glance from the hall. “Otherwise you’d never come into the greenhouse again.”

“If you didn’t leave cat livers lying about,” Fitz groused, and she suppressed a giggle, “then it wouldn’t be as much of a problem.”

“The livers keep things interesting.” 

“You do that well enough on your own.” Another fond smile spread across his face as he finished talking, and she felt fit to bursting with her own happiness. (Or, perhaps it was the confining nature of the corset required for this particular outfit. But she thought it likely that her joy at the day's forthcoming events were more to credit.)

With the way Fitz was looking at her, she knew that he was liable to throw propriety to the wind at any second. On any other day, she would love for him to just sweep her off her feet; but there was too much riding on the next couple of days. After all, she’d had to spend months pressing her case for their marriage, had needed to convince everyone from Buckingham to sundry that Fitz was worthy of the titles that had just been bestowed upon him. With luck, it would be very many more years yet before she became queen and he became the queen’s consort, but marrying the crown princess was still not something permitted to just anyone in the kingdom. Jemma, however, having found the source of her future happiness in her best friend in the world, had refused to let anything keep them from being together. The trade-off was that for the next little while, they had to behave as good as gold in order to convince the rest of the empire—and the extended royal family—that the match was not a mistake in the making.

After a few seconds, he half-glanced behind him and then stepped towards her. Reluctant to seem like she was rejecting him and yet also wary of drawing the attention of the judgmental people around them, Jemma tensed, prepared to step hastily back if need be. But all Fitz did was lay his hand on the round table, reaching towards her, and she realized he had just been angling them so that the flowers hid their hands from any outside viewers. Giving him an admiring smile, Jemma slid her hand along the gray and white marble until it met his, their fingers slipping gently over each others’, skin barely ghosting against skin lest they need to separate again soon, all too soon. It had been well over a week since they had been alone, and truth be told it was driving Jemma mad. If they could even just dance together, chests pressed so close they could nearly feel each others’ heartbeats, at this second, that would be enough for her.

Her eyes caught a smudge of grease on the outer side of his palm, and she let out a sharp hiss of annoyance. “Oh, _Fitz_! Please tell me you weren’t mucking about in the garage again, not now. You know you can’t do work like that until things have calmed down. The queen thinks it looks common.”

At least he had the grace to look sheepish. “The engine just needed a quick fix,” he explained, bright blue eyes widening imploringly. “It only took a second, and I was really careful that no one saw. Other than the drivers. And Jarvis.” She raised an eyebrow, and he grimaced. “Yeah, I know. I just – I like helping. I’m good at that, you know, that’s what I do out on tour. It makes me feel useful.” 

“And normally, I love that about you,” she murmured, smoothing her palm further up so that it rested firmly over his hand. His mouth twitched up at the corner, half in surprise and half in affection. Sometimes, she had the impression that he didn’t quite believe how in love with him she truly was. “But you have to give it up for now. For a few weeks. Until things have settled.” 

Fitz sighed, giving his head a chastened nod. “I just miss working when I’m not. But,” he continued, turning her hand over and grasping it tightly with his, “like a great many other things, I’m going to give it all up for you.”

Jemma nearly found herself stepping forward, but the sound of more voices passing by in the hallway kept her in her place. Instead, she gave her fiancé a warm smile. “Well,” she said, tilting her head mischievously, “you still have twenty-four hours to change your mind.” Glancing down at the slim-banded watch on her wrist, she let out a small hum. “Closer to twenty-one hours, actually.”

“Do you really,” Fitz replied quietly, taking another half step forward and entwining their fingers completely, “think I would ever change my mind?” 

They stood there in silence for a few moments, energy spinning between them along with all the words they knew had to go unsaid for just a little longer. Tomorrow night, at the end of far too many hours of pomp and circumstance, they would be able to leave propriety at the door and be together as they should. Without artifice, without costume, without company—other than each other. To say that Jemma had been dreaming about that moment for months was something of an understatement.

“No,” he said at last, breaking the quiet spell that had woven between them, “much too late for that.” With a laugh, he gestured back at the room across the hall, which seemed to have finally emptied. “I just signed myself away and everything.” 

Watching as a last medalled dignitary exited the room and closed the door, Jemma’s smile thinned. “Or won the greatest prize in the kingdom.” 

Fitz made a small noise of dissatisfaction, separating their hands and turning briefly around to follow her gaze. “I dunno. I mean, that’s what they’re all saying, but I’m not so sure.”

A brief laugh sounded from her throat, and she propped one hand on her hip. “Oh? You’re not, are you?”

“Nah,” he said, turning back to meet her gaze, his own expression a mix of amusement and affection. “Greatest on the planet, maybe. Or in the galaxy.” 

“Oh, _Fitz_ ,” she murmured, instinctively reaching up to tuck a nonexistent lock of stray hair behind one ear. He liked making grandiose statements that, paradoxically, made her feel uncharacteristically small. Yet, she always avidly tried to memorize each one.

After watching her for a few seconds, he glanced around again, noting—as she did—that the rest of the royal dignitaries and signatories and whatsatories had all finally disappeared down the hall, and they were left only with the guard at the entrance to the room.

“Watch out,” Fitz said in a low voice, and before Jemma could register his movement, he was cupping her jaw with both hands and kissing her as if it were the first time all over again.

A small huff of surprise sounded from her throat as their lips met, and although she knew now was a bad time, knew that anyone could walk in at any moment, she didn’t step away. Instead, she wrapped one hand around his wrist and rested the other on his arm, knowing she shouldn’t cling but clinging anyway. Fitz’s lips were warm and gentle and still passionate, pressing in over and over again until she was breathless. But with time being so short, she chose his mouth over air, her heart skipping a beat when he broke away to brush their noses together and then capture her lips again.

 _Oh, damn propriety and damn reputation_ , Jemma thought, leaning further into her fiancé’s embrace. She and Fitz would be married tomorrow; they were allowed to be blissfully, unreservedly happy and to ignore what anyone else thought.

 

\-----

 

_Approximately thirty-two hours later_

 

It was not often that Jemma was awake in the true wee hours of the morning, when the Palace was unnaturally still and dark. Were she to venture beyond her chambers, nary a soul would be stirring. Of course, she had no desire to go anywhere else, as her new chambers were warm, if dimly lit, and contained the only person in whom she had any interest at this moment. 

"I like that outfit," came Fitz's voice from the direction of the washroom, and Jemma turned from where she had been staring critically at herself in her dresser mirror. Having finished cleaning himself up after their lovemaking, Fitz ambled back into her bedroom, underwear hanging low on his hips and hair a delightful mess. The sight of her husband— _husband!_ —prompted a childish glee to dart through her, even though the feeling was somewhat at odds with the heat between them that they had spent the last couple of hours exploring.

She smiled, plucking at the silk and lace nightgown that she had slipped on in his absence. "This?"

"Yeah," he murmured, padding around the four-poster bed to her. "You should wear it all the time." Then he was kissing her, hands buried in her unbound hair, and her body arched instinctively up against him as she wrapped her hands over his shoulders.

"I thought you rather liked it when I didn't have _anything_ on," she teased breathlessly, Fitz's lips trailing hungrily down the column of her throat.

He hummed thoughtfully, one hand reaching around to palm her bare arse beneath the silk. "I'd happily work with both."

Jemma laughed again, tilting forward for a more chaste hug. "Oh, I bet you would." A yawn stuttered out of her throat, and she nuzzled against Fitz's neck, letting him take a little more of her weight.

"Wish I didn't have to go," he muttered, tenderly brushing hair out of her face. 

"Why do you?" She blinked up at him, rubbing one hand up and down his chest. "We  _are_ married."

"But...." Fitz glanced between her and the partially open door that lead to his own ensuite chambers. "I mean, it's set up, and it's tradition, isn't it? You know, expected and all that."

"We're married," she repeated, entwining their hands and bringing them up to see both their wedding rings glinting in the low lamplight. "We can share anything we would like, including chambers." 

A grin split his face, and he bent down to brush their noses together. "Are you asking me to sleep with you, Princess?"

"I could order it if you'd like," she said primly, stepping away and towards her side of the bed, prompting him to twist around to follow her. "But I'd hope that wouldn't be necessary."

Fitz laughed, stepping up to where she leaned against the mattress. "Maybe another night," he whispered, leaning his hands against the bed on either side of hers and capturing her lips once more.

As far as Jemma was concerned, even if Fitz spent every night of their lives with her, it still would not be enough. But for the moment, their wedding day was extending far into the next, and she was more than happy to let it.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter gets a **hard Teen** rating for some suggestive bits.

The jeep lurched from side-to-side as it rumbled into one of the swampy mud holes that peppered the Kenyan savannah. Although their guide and driver seemed unfazed, Jemma let out a small squeak and grabbed onto both the side of the car and Fitz’s leg to keep herself from tumbling overboard. Next to her, Fitz bounced along in the backseat of the jeep, the arm he had slung around her shoulder tightening enough that it might have hurt had she not been grateful for the added stability.

“Can you _get_ seasick from riding in a jeep?” he muttered low enough that only she could hear, and she burst into breathless laughter.

Above and around them, nature’s majesty was on full display, in the endless sunlit sky, the lush high grass, the tease of lions’ tails whipping through the brush. Their stop in Nairobi had marked the beginning of their fourth month on tour through the British Empire on the King’s behalf, and now they were traversing the Kenyan countryside en route to their next publicity stop. The long hours of travel required that they stop overnight at a safe house in the middle of the savannah, about which Jemma was deeply excited. 

First, however, they had to actually get there, and with the jeep’s wheels spinning in the mud at the furthermost edge of the mud hole, Jemma was not certain this was a foregone conclusion. After some amount of debate amongst their guides and the rest of the procession’s personnel, it was decided that the princess and duke would have to climb over the hood of the jeep and jump onto solid ground from there.

Ever conscious of his wife’s safety, Fitz opted to clamber over the high windshield first, finding solid footing on the car’s hood before reaching back to help her over.

“Don’t let me fall in,” she muttered, squeezing his hand as she tried to settle her boot securely on the metal hood. “There are documented cases of some very nasty species of leeches in this part of Africa.”

Although his face was half in shadow thanks to the safari hat he wore, she thought she saw her husband’s face pale ever-so-slightly. “Leeches? Really?” 

Jemma hummed, and then let out a small noise of triumph as she successfully brought her second leg around the windshield without slipping. Holding tight to her hand, Fitz made sure she was standing securely before he hopped down to the ground, presumably to assist her off the jeep. In doing so, though, he himself overbalanced, ending up with one leg submerged in the mucky, half-water slop at the edge of the mud hole. He let out a horrified squawk and stumbled away from the water, shaking out his leg as Jemma suppressed a laugh and took the hand of their guide to help herself descend more smoothly.

Once she was safely on the ground, she acquiesced to his plea that she check for leeches, and she tried not to roll her eyes as she studied his calf and ankle. 

“You’re leechless,” she assured Fitz, and gave his shoulder a warm pat.

Settling his safari hat more securely on his head, he let out a low huff and then patted down his pockets. “Right, good. Thanks.”

“But Fitz,” Jemma teased, half-skipping next to him as the guide waved them over, “you always said you couldn’t dance! That was nearly graceful –”

“Oh, shut up,” he muttered, ears turning an even darker shade of pink than they already were, due to the strong sunlight over the past few days. As their guide began to give them safety instructions for the brief walk to the tree house, she reached over and gave Fitz’s hand an affectionate squeeze. For all her teasing, she was equally glad that the leeches seemed to have given him a pass.

The trio of tree houses where the British delegation would spend the night was on the other side of the field at the edge of which they now stood. Considering their proximity, Jemma thought that the overly serious safety briefing to which they were now being subjected was a bit much. The primary guide handed her husband a rifle, and she watched Fitz check the ammunition and then cock the barrel, as if he were ready to go to war with the long grass that surrounded them.

Despite her dry amusement, however, her entourage prepared for a careful, quiet trek across the open field to the three gargantuan trees that held their secure sleeping quarters. She was so in awe of the wilderness around them that she almost didn’t notice the large leaves rustling at one side of the clearing, prompting everyone in their small party to freeze.

As the noise increased, with something ginormous clearly making its way towards them, Fitz stepped forward so that he was standing between Jemma and whatever danger now approached.

Letting out a loud huff, an elephant with long, ivory tusks emerged from the brush, its hoofs leaving prints larger than the humans’ heads in the soft dirt. Eyes going wide with wonder, Jemma gasped, instinctively reaching out to wrap her fingers around her husband’s arm. Logically, she knew that an aggressive, male elephant would rush right at them if he felt threatened – particularly during mating season, which it currently was – but it was hard to be frightened of something so beautiful. In her whole life, she had never seen anything so magnificent, and never before had she felt the true smallness of her existence in this enormous universe.

“Go with the princess,” Fitz said, gently but firmly shaking off her grip as he strode toward the elephant. The great creature pawed the ground indecisively as it watched them, ears flapping away flies. 

“What?” Jemma said, blinking away her distraction as their guide began to herd her away from Fitz and toward the tree house. The dark-skinned hosts awaiting them in the shelters were calling out to one another, signaling with warning flags. “Don’t be ridiculous, I’m not leav–”

“With me, your highness,” their guide said again, his tone just as sharp as his expression, fixing his eyes on the still-approaching beast.

Sometimes, Jemma hated that she had been trained to first remember her duty to millions of people around the world before considering her own wishes. At this moment, as their local expert shielded her and shuffled her towards safety, her entire being wanted to rebel against what she should do and instead run back to her husband. The elephant, majestic though it was, could kill Fitz with one swipe of its tusks. And yet, she knew she could not give in to that instinct, her royal power giving her as much a cage as it gave her advantage. So she let herself be protected by this tall man with tan-colored skin, holding his rifle at the ready even as he directed her towards the middle tree house.

Bile rose to her throat at the thought that they all believed her to be so helpless and so in need of protection. For all his military training, Fitz was no more capable of fighting against a raging, fully grown elephant than she. Frustration with the expectations born of her gender washed through her from her cheeks to her stomach. 

With some amount of fumbling, Jemma managed to reach the wooden staircase and clamber up it with the help of her hosts, hurrying to the banister that overlooked the clearing they had just crossed. In the middle of the field, Fitz stood with his safari hat in one hand and his rifle in the other, simultaneously distracting and warding off the elephant as it lumbered slowly in his direction. For a heart-rending second, Jemma thought the beast was about to gallop towards him, its trunk swishing agitatedly from side to side. Then, dust puffing up around its hoofs, the elephant changed course, plodding into a nearby section of grass high enough to shield it, and then disappearing from sight.

Fitz let out a distant whoop as she sagged against the wooden railing in relief, watching him jog cheerfully across the last few feet to their shelter. After what felt like far too long, he made it up the staircase and into the safety of the tree house. Jemma reached automatically out for him, unsure whether she was going to smack or hug him, but before she could decide Fitz took three large steps towards her, cupped her cheeks with his hands, and pressed their mouths ardently together. A small noise of surprise escaped her throat, but his lips were warm and familiar as they moved against hers, so she let him break royal custom and kiss the crown princess where anyone present could see.

When her husband finally pulled away, Jemma could feel herself blush as she blinked up at him. She wasn’t used to having other people witness moments like this, and she instinctively wanted to hide away. The rest of her life was visible to the public – her outfits, her likes and dislikes, nearly everything about her was scrutinized by others at all times. But her relationship with Fitz had always been something that belonged to the two of them alone. A few moments had been shared with the world, like their wedding day and parts of their brief honeymoon, but the most important parts – the moments that made Jemma feel so happy she sometimes wondered whether she were living in a dream – were experienced by the two of them, and no one else. As such, generally she was quite content to keep their affection well hidden from the rest of the world. His tongue darted out to wet his lips as he moved back, and she took in a slow breath. To be honest, having her husband be quite so forthright in his attentions did rather make her toes curl.

For his part, Fitz’s cheeks were faintly pink as he grinned down at her, letting his hands shift down and his thumbs brushing against her neck. Remembering what he’d just done, Jemma let out a small noise of annoyance and swatted half-heartedly at his chest, although not firmly enough to actually get him to move.

“Don’t _do_ that,” she muttered, allowing herself to tug him a little closer, fingers curling into his loose, beige shirt.

“What,” he retorted, blue eyes shining even in the wide trees’ shade, “save the crown?” 

Jemma rolled her eyes. “Risk your life to do it, I mean.”

“The Queen Mother told me on our wedding day that it’d be my highest priority from that moment on. Protect the crown.” Fitz leaned forward to press his lips against her forehead, allowing her to squeeze him around the middle probably a bit too tightly for comfort. “I’m going to keep doing it, risk or not.”

“Fitz,” Jemma scolded quietly, drawing away to meet his gaze. “Please. You know how much I....” She trailed off, searching his eyes for understanding, and he gave her a half-surprised smile in return. 

“No more elephant charges,” he promised, and she laughed. Nearby movement from their hosts caught her eye, and Jemma reluctantly backed away from her husband. Now was not the time for them to be displaying so much physical affection; that could wait for later.

The rest of their evening was spent in discussion with their hosts and the main travel guide, and included a fascinating dinner. Once most of the hosts had decamped to their own trees – with the exception of one particularly intimidating guard left at the lowest entrance to the royal tree house – Jemma and Fitz were left alone to marvel at the wonders of their surroundings together. While she cranked their brand new video camera’s handle, he shone a light out upon a family of giraffes as they traversed the clearing. The beasts’ heads were only just barely below the level of the tree house’s bedroom, retinas flashing in the reflected light. 

“Amazing,” Jemma breathed, lowering the camera as the last of the wild animals disappeared into the darkness beyond. “Oh _Fitz_ , I wish we could stay out here longer, really learn about the flora and fauna and the culture....” Trailing off, she bit back a noise of frustration. “Sometimes I think this tour moves too bloody fast.”

“Only one year on the road,” he returned drily, raising one hand in submission when she gave him a despairing look. “No, you know I agree with you. It’d be better if we could do, I don’t know, a month in each country, but spread out over a few years. Give us some time at home in between.” He let out a low sigh, eyes drifting away in thought.

“Give you some time with your planes.” Carefully securing the lens cap, she met his gaze with an understanding smile. “I miss the greenhouse, too. My lab, rather.”

“I know you do,” he replied immediately, pushing up from the wicker chair in which he had been seated. “And, really, today was a good damn show. All those animals! And we saw –” 

“A monkey,” she finished for him, watching his eyes light up at the memory. 

“A great big one, even if it was in a tree kind of far away. With that long tail....” Fitz trailed off, grinning widely, and she couldn’t help but smile back as she set aside the video camera.

“And I got to see you dance,” she teased, laughing at the dry glare he shot in her direction. “Might have been the first time ever.”

“I danced at our wedding.” He glanced surreptitiously down at the leg that had been submerged, and she resisted the urge to tease him again.

“I know. I was there.” After putting the camera down on an adjacent table, she leaned lightly on the banister overlooking the nighttime vista.

“I only meant –”

“It was quite nice,” she interrupted, speaking over him. “Dancing with you.” She ducked her head at the shameless subject change, peering out again at the dark expanse of terrain before them. “I wouldn’t mind doing it more often.”

For a few long seconds, neither of them spoke, the air filled with the sounds of insects and the occasional other nocturnal animal chatter. Jemma turned when she heard Fitz’s footsteps across the creaking wood, and allowed him to gently pull her around and against him.

Wrinkling her nose in amusement, she let him bring her hand up next to their shoulders in a traditional dance pose. “What, here?”

“Yeah,” he said, shuffling them into a halting waltz.

(As much as he had tried gallantly to dance with her at their wedding, Fitz was no more talented at physical activity than she had ever been. The only difference between them was that she had been forced to practice it over and over again; now, as her husband, he would be practicing as much as she. One day, she hoped they would both stop stepping on each others’ feet.) 

“But there’s no music,” she argued, shaking away loose hairs that had fallen in front of her face.

Fitz just shrugged in response and continued to lead her around the small room in a slightly ungainly but infinitely endearing dance, and Jemma felt something warm and electric radiating through her whole body. She wanted to say something that encompassed her feelings, to tell him exactly how much joy she found in their life together, atypical though it may be, but no words seemed good enough. Instead, she slowed their dance until they were just circling slowly, watching each other in adoring silence.

Eventually, she leaned forward to tuck her head beneath his chin, reveling in the steady, familiar hold of her husband’s arms. “Fitz,” she said quietly, breaking the comfortable silence at last. “You know how we agreed to put off having children for a bit, until things were more... settled?”

He shifted against her, briefly tightening his grip on her hand. “Yeah.”

“I’ve been thinking....” Against her own instinct to hide, Jemma pulled back so she could meet his eyes. “Maybe it’s time we started to, well, _try_.”

Sucking in a small breath, he just stared at her for a few seconds. “Really?”

She nodded. “I know we’re both tired, the tour is exhausting. But if I got pregnant, we would be able to... well, postpone the rest without seeming like we’re snubbing anyone. You could go back to Stansted, to your Spitfires. And we’ve been married a year and a half, and....” Darting her tongue out to wet her lips, she inhaled. “I rather like the idea of starting a family. With you. I’m ready now.”

A disbelieving smile flashed across his face, and he let out a small laugh as he tugged her forward to rest their foreheads together. “Sometimes I cannot believe how bloody lucky I am.”

Nibbling at her lower lip, she basked in the warmth of his gaze for a few moments before responding. “Is that a yes, then?”

“Oh, yes, Christ,” Fitz answered, reaching up to frame her face with his hands, “yes, let’s start a family.” 

Just before his lips found hers, she smiled so widely she thought she might sprain something. For many years, Jemma had felt somewhat apprehensive about the thought that she would be relied upon to continue the Simmons line of royals, preferably with more than one child to secure the line of accession. But with Fitz as her partner in every sense, the thought of raising children filled her with such soft joy that she could barely stay still. Assuming she survived the births – and the prognosis for that was good, as she had always been healthy – he would be a marvelous father to their children. He was kind, gentle, and funny, and their children would adore him. Together, they would navigate the challenges of parenthood, walking side by side into the happy unknown. 

If Fitz was having similarly emotional thoughts, he gave no indication of it, only pressing in tighter and kissing her deeply. He angled her lips open to slide his tongue against hers, and her breath hitched as his fingers pushed up beneath her loose shirt to dig delightfully firmly into the smooth skin of her back. Much about Fitz had surprised her during their courtship and early marriage, including the passion that built between them during their many nights together. For all the things that Margaret and her other ladies in waiting had told Jemma about marriage, the ache of desire that her husband elicited had not been one of them. It had been a wonderful and welcome surprise.

His lips trailed heatedly along her jaw and down her neck, and she felt that telltale heat spreading through her. Leaves rustled outside, and Jemma’s eyes snapped open.

“Fitz,” she said, rapidly attempting to disentangle herself from his embrace. “No!”

Refusing to let her get far away, he fought to keep his arms around her waist, playfully prompting her to giggle when he snuck in a tickle. “Why not?”

“Because!”

“You’re the one who suggested it,” he pointed out, grinning as she ceased her wriggling and glared up at him. “We don’t even need the condoms, which is a good thing, ‘cause I’m not sure where I put them when we were packing last night.”

“We’re in a _tree house_ ,” she faux-whispered. Reaching out awkwardly from his embrace, she quickly tugged the cord for the only curtains available in the tree house, thin gauze contraptions that would barely been effective at dimming sight let alone noise. “They could _hear_ –”

“Then _do_ try to keep it down.” She felt warmth steal across her cheeks, and he grinned, nuzzling forward for another kiss. 

“I didn’t mean we should try _tonight_ ,” she murmured, allowing him to shuffle them towards the king-size bed.

Fitz chuckled, smoothing a lock of hair away from her face. “Didn’t you?”

She let out a small noise of annoyance; he knew her too well. The image of him facing the elephant earlier in the day hadn’t quite left her mind, and she had admittedly been admiring him for most of the night. It was the rare man who looked good in a safari hat and khakis, but somehow she found the look rather befitting him. But it had not been until she was actually faced with the option of letting her husband have his wicked way with her in the middle of the African savannah that she had realized quite how risqué the endeavor would be.

As she was busy attempting to invent an argument about delayed gratification, he continued moving her backwards until her calves hit the end of the wooden bedframe. Although she didn’t quite overbalance, she did let Fitz encourage her to sit down on the mattress, watching as he lowered himself to his knees in front of her.

For the merest of seconds, she was reminded of the day he had accepted her proposal and then insisted on proposing himself, kneeling before her to profess that he was willing to go to hell and back if it meant he could be near her. That now-familiar, overwhelming affection for him washed through her again, and in that moment Jemma knew she did not want to wait any longer before starting a family with the love of her life. Having come to her decision, she reached forward to cup Fitz’s cheek in her hand, and his expression softened, reading her changed mind without her needing to speak a word.

“I promise,” he murmured, brushing their noses together, “that I’ll be very, very quiet.” 

His eyes were impossibly deep and dark as he feathered his mouth over hers one more time, and she drew her lower lip between her teeth. Her loose shirt fell away from her shoulders once unbuttoned, and she glanced beyond the banister of their tree house, where only thin, gauze curtains shielded them. Then Fitz continued to mouth down her neck, her chest, her belly, quickly discarding the scant pieces of clothing that separated him from his goal. She let out a breathy sigh as he began to work on her, against her, spreading her legs and building her desire as skillfully as he did Spitfire engines. 

Normally, Jemma liked doing what was expected of her, but as her husband took her apart in a tree house in the middle of the Kenyan savannah, their fingers tangled together against her hip, she wondered if maybe some rules were meant to be broken.

 

\------

 

The next morning, as was usually the case, Jemma awoke before Fitz, and she managed to sneak out of bed and finish her daily ablutions without him even stirring. As she slipped on the shirt he had worn the day before, her nude form chilled in the morning air, a small smile worked its way across her lips. Only time would tell if he had successfully impregnated her the night before, but she could not wait to find out. The sight of him sprawled naked across their bed, pert bum bare to her gaze, was also certainly worth smiling about.

Suppressing a laugh, she reached for the video camera, setting the crank wheel into motion as she panned the lens across her husband’s sleeping form. He would likely grumble about it when she showed him once they were home, but she would convince him to let her keep it. The image was for her own private enjoyment – and enjoy it she did.

Once she had recorded her fill, she put the camera aside and climbed back into bed, scooting over so that she was resting against his back. The softness of him as he slept was something she continued to find fascinating, even after having lived and slept together for so long. His curls stuck up at all angles, and he had an adorably peaceful expression on his face, every muscle relaxed in sleep. As she leaned over him, fingers lightly tracing the sharp curve of his jaw, his long, dark eyelashes fluttered against his cheek.

“Good morning,” she murmured, snuggling closer in as she pressed a kiss to his cheek.

Rather than reply, Fitz made a low, indistinct noise of greeting, and wriggled slowly around so that he was on his back and she was resting against his chest. Still half-asleep, he hummed and nuzzled up at her, tangling his fingers affectionately into her loose-hanging curls.

“Pregnant yet?” he teased, and she laughed, ducking against his chest.

“Can’t tell,” she replied wryly, and dropped a kiss to the corner of his mouth. “But I think that last night was an excellent attempt. Top-notch effort.”

A grin flashed across his face, and she felt him reach for the part in her shirt. “Completely agree. Although replication is important to any experiment.”

With that, he pushed forward to topple her back onto the mattress, and her laughter rung out in the dew-laden morning air. For the first time in possibly her entire life, Jemma truly forgot that she was the crown princess, the whole world evaporating other than the quaint tree house bedroom and Fitz, the only person she was sure she could not live without.


	6. Chapter 6

The house on the outskirts of Nairobi felt almost like home by the time the crown princess and the duke returned, both of them happily greeting the staff as they prepared to settle in for another few days prior to their next departure. Happy to be around familiar faces – and running water – again, Fitz spent the first couple hours of their return playing with the hosts’ children.

Back at home, he had never taken much of an interest in other peoples’ offspring, but much to his surprise, he rather enjoyed spending time with the ones here. They were very impressed with his driving skills, in which he pretended to tutor them. Admittedly, thoughts of his and Jemma’s future children being at the forefront of his mind likely contributed to his current mindset. A quiet voice in the back of his head worried about him becoming his father in any way, and he calmed himself by reasoning that practice makes perfect. To his surprise, he greatly enjoyed laughing with these boys and one girl, their quick minds entertaining him for a good, long time.

Although it was still far too soon for Jemma to actually be pregnant, let alone show signs of being so, Fitz fancied that there had been something rather like a glow surrounding her for the past few days. His wife was gorgeous on even the worst of days, but he suspected that their plans for the future made her shine more than she already was wont to do. Daydreams of their family had occupied his thoughts on the last of their whirlwind tour of the Kenyan countryside, and he had needed to resist the urge to talk about it constantly. A kind of peace had settled between them in the past few days, something that had been sorely lacking during the rest of their months-long journey. Neither of them was naturally drawn to the spotlight, which was their specific purpose during this particular trip, but their private discussion in that tree house had given them both something else to think about.

Much later, as Fitz bounded up the front steps of the royal guesthouse—having just left the giggling group of children—he heard a car’s wheels screech as it parked in the driveway. He turned to see the master of his and Jemma’s house, Jarvis, stumble hurriedly out of the passenger seat and up the pathway, looking harried as he absolutely never did.

“Hullo Jarvis,” Fitz said, leaning back on his heels as the other man drew even with him. “What’s the trouble?” 

“Your Grace,” Jarvis said, giving a quick bow and dabbing his brow with his sleeve. “You have... just arrived?”

“Yes, a couple hours ago.”

“And the princess?”

Frowning, Fitz studied the familiar face of one of the few Palace staff members who he genuinely liked and felt cared for the two of them more than the titles that they held. The nomination of Jarvis to their household had been one of his few suggestions, and he had never once regretted it. “In back, I expect. She was writing to the King, and then wanted to do some gardening. She misses hers at home.” When Jarvis just nodded, looking even more wan than he had when he had arrived, Fitz let out a small noise of dissatisfaction. “Out with it, Jarvis. What’s happened?”

“It’s the King,” Jarvis answered at last, voice low—and yet the words sounded to Fitz as if he were shouting above the rustling leaves. “He... passed in the night. God rest his soul.”

Fitz felt as if the ground had just been dropped from beneath him, and he stepped backwards, looking around for something to lean on. The only thing nearby were the hideous, sculpted bushes of the estate, so instead he reached up to card his fingers through his hair, a nervous tick from his childhood that he had mostly trained himself out of as an adult.

“It should be me,” he said at last, turning as he caught a glimpse of Jarvis’ shoulders relaxing in his peripheral vision. “I should tell her. What happened?” Jarvis gave him a quick run-down of the events surrounding the king having passed peacefully in his bed, and Fitz exhaled. The ordinariness of his death would not make it any gentler for his daughter. “Keep the others back, will you?”

“Yes, sir,” Jarvis responded immediately, straightening his askew waistcoat. “And, sir? I’m... terribly sorry.”

Swallowing, Fitz nodded before turning to stride up the steps to the house. Although he had not known Jemma’s father well, the man had accepted Fitz into his family as he had never expected, and for that, Fitz would forever be in his debt. In addition to being a well-loved king, he had also been a wonderful father to Jemma, which Fitz had been lucky enough to witness in the brief time of their marriage. His heart gave a tight lurch at the thought that now was probably the worst time in the world for Jemma to become pregnant, but there was nothing to be done about it if she was. A part of him was already mourning for the plans they had discussed, their entire future having been reordered with one short sentence. The King was dead – and so long live the Queen.

Fitz found his wife out back by the edge of the flower garden, the edges of her travel skirt lined with dirt. In all likelihood she had just been crawling around in the flowerbeds, poking and prodding and being so very much the woman he loved more than life itself. His throat felt dry as he approached, and he caught the off-key sound of her humming to herself.

Hearing his footsteps in the grass, she turned to glance over her shoulder, smiling brightly as she caught sight of him. “Finally, come in for your nap, have you? I finished my letter to Father, you can read it if you’d like. It’s in my pocket.” She turned and raised her gloved hands, which were occupied by shears and an impeccable bushel of flowers. “My hands are a bit busy at the moment. You should really smell the _alstroemelia_ , Fitz, it’s marvelous....” At last, she noticed the expression on his face, which he had been unable to temper, and he swallowed. “Fitz, what is it?”

“We’ve just received word from... Jarvis came from the press club, and....”

The shears and flowers slipped slowly from her grasp to disappear into the bushes over which she had been leaning. “Fitz—”

“It’s your father,” he managed to get out at last, and she sucked in a shuddery breath. “He passed away in his sleep, in his bed.” 

“No,” she whispered, tears spilling onto her cheeks, and in a second Fitz stepped right up against her, curling his hands protectively around her shoulders and up into her hair.

“I’m sorry,” he said fervently, pressing his lips hard against her forehead. “I’m so sorry.”

A jagged sob was wrenched from her chest, her gloved hands scrabbling for purchase against the back of his shirt, and he tried to hold her as hard as possible, as if he could absorb some of her grief into himself. Jemma’s whole body shook with the force of her crying, making her feel small and fragile as she otherwise never seemed, and Fitz pressed his face against her hair, closing his eyes and wishing there were something else to be done. The sound echoed in the otherwise empty garden, and he resolved to stand there holding her for as long as she deemed it necessary, privacy be damned. Eventually, her tears slowed—a large spot on his shirt’s shoulder now distinctly wet—and she began to take in shuddering breaths.

“What can I do?” he said quietly, stroking one hand through her hair. “Anything, just tell me.” 

She sniffled and gave her head a brief shake, then nuzzled further into his neck. “I thought we had more time,” she mumbled, and he held her tighter. This was, as he had thought not long before, not part of their plan. When she spoke again, her voice was so quiet he barely heard her. “I’m not ready.”

After a few moments of internal debate, Fitz shifted her around so that he could meet her gaze, chestnut-colored eyes dark with grief and fear. “I’m sorry,” he said again, smoothing hair out of her face and cupping her chin. “But you _are_. I mean, not for—not to lose your father. But for the rest? You’re ready. And you’re going to be magnificent.”

For a few seconds, she just stared up at him, lower lip quivering slightly. Then, inhaling deeply, she centered herself, and gave him a brusque nod. With that, he knew that she believed him.

The next couple of hours were so hectic they barely had time to breathe, let alone grieve, making plans to travel home as soon as possible and packing up the belongings they had only just unpacked. They had to talk to one person and the next about arrangements, and they both needed to clean up and change. By the time they were ready to leave, it felt like an entire lifetime had passed. 

While the staff were finishing last minute arrangements, Jarvis ushered Jemma and Fitz into a smaller sitting room, as secluded as any in the house could possibly be at a time like this.

For the last little while, Jemma had retreated into herself, hardly speaking unless she was spoken to. Although Fitz understood why, it made him nervous. People around the Palace often joked that they must be able to read each other’s minds, so in tune they were with their partner’s thoughts. Today, however, their connection was overpowered by her grief and their own respective fears, and that had him feeling particularly antsy. He tried his best to subdue it; his duty now was to support his wife in whatever way she needed. 

When she sat on the only two-person sofa in the room, he initially hovered by an adjacent armchair, unsure of either the protocol or her wishes. But she just glanced up at him, one eyebrow crooked in impatience, and he took that to mean that he should sit next to her. Once seated, he reached over to give her hand a quick squeeze, which he dropped just as Jarvis turned around. For a brief second before Fitz let go, though, he felt her squeeze back.

The three of them discussed a number of logistics regarding their departure and arrival in London. If one did not know Jemma as he did, Fitz thought more than once, one would never know quite how distraught she was in that moment. Her focus on duty prevented her grief from leaking through. 

“It would help,” Jarvis continued, smoothing one hand along the fine fabric of his trousers leg, “if we could decide here and now on your name.”

Jemma looked from him to Fitz, nonplussed. “My name?”

“Yes, ma’am. Your regnal name. That is, the name you’ll take as Queen.” Inhaling slightly, he glanced between them. “Your father took George... obviously, his name was Albert. And, before he abdicated, your uncle took Edward, of course. His name was David.” 

After listening to him carefully, Jemma shifted on the sofa and glanced at Fitz. “What’s wrong with my name?”

“Nothing,” Jarvis replied quickly, and Fitz had to hold his tongue. Her name was more than that to him. 

Not long after their wedding, one late night when Fitz had indulged a bit too heavily in spirits at dinner, he had whispered to her how much he loved her name. She had lain naked in his arms, long hair spread over her shoulders and the pillow as he murmured into her ear and trailed his fingers along her skin. Even with everything that the kingdom ruled over, he had confided drunkenly, Jemma was the finest jewel in any crown. His tongue had been loosened by alcohol and he was sorely embarrassed by his own sentimentality the next morning, but when he had spoken the words, she had stretched up to kiss him, basking in the silly romantic things he told her.

Now, as they sat in this sundrenched sitting room in Nairobi, Fitz wondered if the memory had occurred to Jemma in this moment as it had to him. There was, of course, no indication of any such thought on her face, and she sighed, straightening the line of her amber skirt. 

“Well,” she said, and lifted her chin slightly, “then let’s not overcomplicate matters unnecessarily.” She stood as she spoke the next, and both men hurried to follow her example. “My name is Jemma.” 

Skirt swishing as she moved, Jemma made for the hallway, signaling that this meeting had ended. Fitz gave Jarvis a half-smile and a nod, and stepped around him. But Jarvis spoke again, stopping both of them in their tracks. “Then, long live Queen Jemma.” 

For a few long seconds, she stood in the doorway, skirt still swaying slightly in its halted momentum. The air shifted, all of them acknowledging for the first time that she was now the ruler of the Great British Empire. After giving her head a small shake, she strode into the hallway, heels clipping against the wood. Within a few steps, she half-turned, reaching one hand out to Fitz when she realized that he wasn’t behind her. 

In that second, he acknowledged all of his fear about how this would change their relationship and how heavy the crown would weigh upon her. This was the journey that she had worried about when she had warned him to seriously consider the weight of her proposal, the moment that both of them had feared but never expected to have to confront nearly so soon. But now, as then, this only changed the circumstances of their life together, not the fundamentals of it. 

Even if she was the Queen of the British Empire to the rest of the world, to Fitz, Jemma Simmons was the love of his life and the best friend he had ever known. Any sacrifices that would have to be made, they would make together, just as they had vowed.

So Fitz followed quickly after his wife, taking her proffered hand as they continued down the hall, striding together into the dawn of an entirely new adventure.

 

\------

 

**_The End_ **


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